When the dog bites
    Photo by ristok on Flickr. Licensed under Creative Commons.

    The bombs are falling tonight.
    These explosions roar
                (But only bursting vacuums)
    twisting stomachs in darts
    like cracking knuckles, or bones
    snapping under the pressure –
    now a flash-white spasm.

    Or is this the sound of all the beams breaking
    in this perpetual construction site?
                (Just a foreshadowing and a remnant)
    A bellowed refusal to drown out the sun.
    Their revolution is now. All buildings
    yearn for ivy. Gravel. Renewal. Boom.
    Lightning like rapture.

    This thunder I think could spell the end.
    Zues and Sango, praise and heal –
               (We’re only ordinary men.)
    It is death, that is clear. With fire and zeal,
    war on the overgrown plains yells in baritone,
    lumbering heavy with extinction.
    We cower, for this is the way. We know
    the world ends – Bang.

    But no, thunder never touched the ground.
    Bombs far-gone and beams strong.
               (It’s only just a sound.)
    Sterile without falling rain on soft soil
    like a pot to overflow one day
    as we watch some other catastrophe
    like our eyes as we drift
    to sleep,


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